


On the Drift

by Amberdreams



Category: Firefly, Supernatural
Genre: Bonding, Brawling, Community: intoabar, Crossover, DO NOT COPY, Gen, Magic, When worlds collide, getting drunk, nothing too serious, Уточнять у автора
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 01:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams
Summary: Dean Winchester walks into a bar in a desert and meets Jayne Cobb. Misunderstandings ensue.





	On the Drift

**Title**: On the Drift  
**Author**: [](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/profile)[](https://amberdreams.livejournal.com/)amberdreams  
**Prompt**: Dean Winchester goes into a bar and meets Jayne Cobb  
**Fandoms**: Supernatural and Firefly  
**Word** **Count**: c2900  
**Rating**: Teen and up  
**Contents/warnings**: Some swearing, oblique mention of prostitution

** On the Drift **  
For Intoabar 2019

Dad is gonna kill him. 

Out of gas in the middle of a fucking desert - Dean can’t believe he’s this stupid. How had he not seen the gauge getting so dangerously low? He fishes his cell-phone out of his jacket pocket and grimaces. No signal, of course. Typical. 

He glares out the dusty windshield at the bare rocks and scrub grass, and manfully resists the urge to bang his head on the steering wheel in frustration. Good thing Sam isn’t with him, he’d never hear the last of it.

He turns eighteen, Dad gives him the keys to the Impala and a simple Chupacabra case to fly solo on, and what does Dean Winchester do? Instead of proving he’s man enough, he fucks it all up. Sure, the beast is dead, and some New Mexico subsistence farmer’s goats are safe from supernatural dogs, if nothing else, but now Dean’s stranded on a dirt road with nothing even vaguely civilised in sight … apart from that busted up sign with a big-ass arrow on it, saying _Joss’s Bar & Gas_ _ 1/4mile _ .

“What the hell?”

Dean rubs at his gritty eyes, looks again. Nope, he wasn’t seeing things. The sign is still there and looks like it’s been there for decades; it’s a mystery how he missed it before. 

Whatever. Dean Winchester ain’t going to look a gift billboard in the mouth. He’s out of the Impala and rooting in the trunk for the empty gas cans quicker than Sam could’ve rolled his eyes at one of Dean’s bad jokes. He hesitates for a second before grabbing the new green duffle bag he’d bought from Walmart less than a week ago, stuffing it with the canisters, two water bottles (one holy water) and a machete. His Colt 1911 is safely tucked into the waistband of his jeans, because Dean’s done being stupid for the day.

Before he sets off in the direction the sign’s pointing, he checks his cell phone one more time – still nothing. A quarter mile ain’t far, he just hopes this Joss’s place isn’t as derelict as its advertisement, or getting torn a new one by John Winchester will be the least of his worries.

He sighs, shoulders the bag and walks.

~0~0~

Jayne is on his fourth Blue Circle, but the beer isn’t doing its given job on his mood. Which figures, because lately very little seems to be doing what it should, in Jayne’s opinion. Time was, drinking beer gave him a nice buzz, made the world go all fuzzy and distant-like, so even a woman with a hou zi de pi gu face, like that one sitting in the corner nursing grudges like liquor, would look attractive to him. For whatever reason, alcohol isn’t working its magic today, and the disappointment settles heavy in Jayne’s stomach, as leaden as Wash’s dumplings.

Just his luck to end up on a ship where the only possible options for sexing are either unavailable, unaffordable, or too downright dangerous to approach. Oiling Vera, gorgeous though his favourite weapon is, don’t make up for the lack of attention his pecker is getting. He can’t even remember the last time…

Jayne’s morose train of thought is derailed by the bump of a shoulder into his arm, causing precious amber liquid to slosh over the rim of his glass onto the already too-sticky counter.

“Hey! Watch what you’re doing, you qing wa cao de liu mang!” 

Jayne’s swearing tangles on his tongue when he lays eyes on the owner of the offending shoulder. Okay, it’s a guy, but _wo de tian a_, just a-look-ee at that face. The boy’s too gorram pretty to be anything but a whore, right? Jayne ain’t sly, but he is desperate and has credit, thanks to that last job on Whitefall. He’s also got time a-plenty, since Mal and Zoe are off planet on one of the moons - _negotiatin’_, _Jayne, no need for your particular brand of blow-back_; Kaylee’s taken River shopping, and the rest of the crew made it clear Jayne’s company wasn’t required for whatever shindigs they had planned.

This new arrival might provide some kind of diversion. Jayne perks right up and starts paying attention.

~0~0~

By the time he reaches Joss’s Roadhouse Dean is hot, sweaty and fetchingly plastered in a pale red dust that he’s sure has reached places it shouldn’t. He supposes he should be glad the damn place exists at all, but he’s having a hard time feeling grateful, what with the fact that the sign’s so-called quarter mile had turned out to be more like a full one, and the meagre breeze had done nothing to cool him down, instead whipping up dust into his face until he swore his eyelids were sand-papering his eyes every time he blinked and his mouth was grittier than the Flyer’s mascot. 

And now he’s apparently made it to civilisation, there’s no sign of a gas station attached to this low wooden shack that’s calling itself a bar. Insult to injury, there’s not a single vehicle of any description in the vicinity of the ramshackle building, which doesn’t bode well for his chances of finding fuel for either himself or his baby.

“Is this place even open?” he mutters to the torn up poster advertising some liquor he’s never heard of. Dean grimaces at the trickle of sweat that runs down between his shoulder blades. He pushes at the door half-heartedly, not really expecting anything, and is pleasantly surprised when it swings open. He’s even happier when the rush of air that greets him is not only refrigerator-cool, but laden with the smell of beer and something greasy that makes his stomach grumble loud enough to reach his ears over the general hubbub inside.

Dean’s so delighted to find the bar open and serving, he doesn’t even carry out a cursory check of the clientele, just barges his way straight to the counter. The background music is loud, some weird hillbilly slash techno-pop that drowns out pretty much everything else.

“Darlin’, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Literally,” he half shouts to the barkeep over the din, slapping a ten dollar bill down, accompanied by his best smile. “Gimme a beer for starters, and please tell me you have pie.”

The bartender’s female all right, but square and solid as a brick wall, and is singularly unimpressed with both Dean’s smile and his money, ignoring both. But since she thumps an overflowing glass of something slightly frothy and golden down in front of him, Dean doesn’t care. He’s drunk half the cool liquid before coming up for air, and is already feeling better by the time he wipes foam off his mouth with the back of his hand and takes a good look around him.

This ain’t much like any bar he remembers. First off, most of the folks are openly packing heat, including the tall, dark-haired dude on the stool next to him, who is also rather creepily staring at Dean. That giant Blade Runner tv is sweet, though. Man, it’s the biggest and flattest screen he’s ever seen, but the rest of the decor wouldn’t look out of place on the set of Unforgiven. He half expects to see Clint Eastwood walk in any second.

Dean’s gaze wanders from the room back to creepy guy, and lands on the interesting-looking weapon strapped to that meaty thigh. 

“Nice gun, dude,” Dean blurts, momentarily forgetting the strange expression that’s been on the guy’s face since he sat down. He’s reminded of it a second later when creepy-dude puts a large hand on Dean’s thigh and squeezes Dean’s leg suggestively.

“Thought you’d never notice,” Creepy leers, leaning close enough for Dean to get a faceful of beery breath, which – gross, “How’s about you and those pretty lips of yours make a closer acquaintance with it out back?”

~0~0~

Once Jayne’s noticed the new guy, he finds it hard to look away. The guy seems to be ignoring Jayne in favour of drinking – which is a diversion in itself, if Jayne’s honest. Watching the way Pretty Boy’s lips caress the edge of the glass, and the vulnerable length of his throat when he tips his head back to swallow are bad enough, but then he puts the glass down and takes to staring round the room, Jayne may just have gotten fixated on those lips.

Plump and juicy as those strawberries Kaylee loves so much, and gorramit, maybe that wasn’t a great image to conjure up either, because the noises that girl makes when she’s eating one of those berries, well. Should be ruttin’ illegal, is all.

So when Pretty Boy finally ups out of nowhere to say Jayne has a nice gun, Jayne doesn’t think it’s unreasonable to take that as an invitation. It’s somewhat of a surprise, therefore, to find himself flat on his back, staring at the rafters through a bright red pain in the centre of his face that sings of a possible broken nose. The haze over his vision might be blood, or rage, Jayne ain’t too fussed about which, because he’s on his feet in a flash and then punches are flying and he’s having too much fun brawling to think about much else.

Jayne’s the first to land on the boardwalk outside, hoping he ain’t got splinters in his ass to go with his bloody nose and possible dislocated finger. Pretty Boy isn’t far behind, landing in an untidy tumble of long limbs, which he quickly rearranges so he’s sitting on the edge of the planking, like it’s a bench. 

“…and stay out!” comes from somewhere behind, accompanied with the crack of the door slamming, and Jayne wonders mournfully when his life became such a rutting gorram piece of gǒushǐ.

Jayne sits up and joins Pretty Boy on the edge of the boards. He scratches his nose, then yelps when both injured finger and mashed nasal cartilage make it known they don’t want to be touched. 

“Aw, gorramit,”Jayne says in sudden realisation. “I had a rutting beer to drink!”

The boy’s shoulders are shaking, and Jayne feels his eyebrows raise. Someone who can punch like that doesn’t seem the sort to break down like a … and that’s when Jayne realises Pretty Boy is laughing. Gorram _laughing_.

Pretty Boy turns and grins through bloodied teeth. Jayne stiffens then relaxes as the boy reaches inside his big leather jacket to produce – oh glory – a full bottle of Mudder’s Milk. Hadn’t thought you could get it outside of Canton.

“Of course, if you’d rather go back inside for your beer…,” says the boy, then laughs again when Jayne snatches the bottle and takes a long gulp. Jayne’s not without manners, though, no matter what Mal says, and hands it back when he’s done. It’s Jayne’s turn to laugh at the contortions the boy’s face runs through when he tries the liquor. 

“Holy shit,” the boy croaks, “what is this stuff?” He squints at the label through a rapidly closing sunset-eye and Jayne beams proudly.

“Only the best drink in the ‘verse, my friend.”

~0~0~

The drink tastes like one of Sam’s girly fruity milkshakes mixed with cow dung, but wow, does it pack a kick. After a couple of swallows it's burned his taste-buds off because Dean can’t taste it anymore, and it goes down hellasmooth. After a couple more swallows Creepy Guy seems like a potential best friend and Dean’s nose has gone numb.

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says, holding out his hand. Creepy Guy puts out his hand and shakes, firm but not showing off and Dean smiles, barely noticing when his split lip opens up and blood mixes with the – what the fuck was it called again? – Mudder’s Milk.

“Jayne Cobb,” says the guy, and Dean can’t help laughing.

“Seriously? You were hitting on me like I’m a girl and you’re called Jane?”

“It’s with a Y, you húndàn.”

“Oh right, like spelling it with a Y makes it any less of a girl’s name.” Dean leans back on his arms and stretches his legs out, head swimming pleasantly. Something’s niggling at the back of his brain, though. 

“Wait, what did you call me? Han-den?”

Jayne takes another sip of the mudmilk stuff, a puzzled frown on his battered face. 

“Húndàn, I said húndàn. What’s the matter, didn’t nobody teach you to swear?”

“Fuck yeah, of course I can swear, but I ain’t heard that word before. What’s it mean?”

“What’s it mean? I… huh. I guess _asshole_? Don’t really think about it that way. It’s just swearin’, you know? Like  gǒushǐ or rutting, or humping or pigu…”

Dean takes the bottle, has a sip while Jayne-with-a-Y’s list of words rolls on. It’s kind of soothing.

Really, this mud-stuff isn’t half bad, once you get used to it. It's an effective painkiller--he can hardly feel his face at all now, let alone the throb from his swollen eye or the sting of his split lip. He leans back farther until he’s horizontal, bottle held carefully between his hands, resting on his stomach. The sky is sort of purple, which at any other time Dean might have found strange, but Mudder’s Milk-Dean just thinks it’s pretty.

“Húndàn,” he mutters to himself, “húndàn. Gotta remember that one, gonna mess with Sammy’s head…”

He closes his good eye, just resting up for a minute.

~0~0~

When Dean wakes, the bottle is warm in his hands and the skin on his face feels tighter than a drumskin. His blackeye throbs like a bad bass-line as he sits up gingerly and stares. 

“What the…”

Not only is there no sign of his recent companion, there’s no boardwalk, and no bar. In front of him, as far as he can see with his one functioning eye, are red rocks and red soil punctuated by the occasional sharp agave and scrubby creosote. 

He nearly leaps a couple of feet in the air when a woman’s voice comes from directly behind him.

“Fill her up, sir?” 

He turns slowly, clutching the bottle like a lifeline. The relief when he sees the long sleek lines of a very dusty Impala is indescribable, and pierces through his bewilderment. Not only is the Impala here, she’s stopped right next to a gas pump that looks like a relic from the fifties. The small Asian woman who is holding the gas nozzle somewhat defensively gasps when she takes in his battered appearance.

“Um, yeah, sorry about…um.” He gestures vaguely at his face with the bottle, then realises that isn’t perhaps the best choice of pointer and quickly changes the subject. “She’s nearly out of gas so, yeah, please, a fill up would be great.”

Though Dean still hasn’t a clue what's going on, the familiar hum of the pump and the strong scent of gas is reassuring. The gas station is little more than a corrugated tin shack with two ancient pumps, and there’s no sign of any other buildings. It’s almost as strange to find a gas station here in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert as it had been to come across Joss’s Bar – if indeed the bar had ever existed at all. Though there’s this half full bottle of weird-ass liquor in his hand that says it did...

As he watches the gauge on the pump tick over, Dean decides he’s not going to think any more. His head hurts and as long as his Baby was getting fuelled up and he can drive out of here in one piece, that’s all that matters, right? 

A movement out in the desert snags his attention. He spins around just in time to see a skinny coyote flash its bushy tail at him in jaunty fashion before it disappears behind a small outcrop.

“Well fuck,” Dean muses under his breath. “I reckon that húndàn whammied me.”

~0~0~

“Hey, Jayne, snap to it! Time to go.”

Jayne sits up sudden-like, wondering when he’d come to be laying down. He looks around for the boy, what was his gorram name – oh yeah, Dean. No sign of anyone except Malcom Reynolds, looming in that way he likes to do because he thinks it makes him look more captain-y, or somesuch. Jayne clambers to his feet as slow as an old man, feeling every bruise deep to his bones. He bites back a groan, knowing there’ll be no sympathy from Mal, who’s already stalking away towards the road, no doubt heading where they’ve parked Serenity, somewhere out of sight. Jayne hopes Mal has a transport ready, he’s not feeling much like walking far right now. He takes a couple of strides then stops.

“ Gǒushǐ!”

That wáng bā Dean Winchester had walked off with Jayne’s bottle of Mudder’s Milk.

~0~0~

**Author's Note:**

> **  
**  
Glossary for the Firefly parts  

> 
> wáng bā – bastard  
Gǒushǐ – crap  
Húndàn – asshole  
hou zi de pi gu – monkey’s butt  
qing wa cao de liu mang - Frog-humping son of a bitch  
wo de tian a – oh my god  
pigu - butt


End file.
